The Funeral Singer
by WolfKael
Summary: Samantha Harwood, formerly Samantha Manson, poisons her abusive husband, convinced that no one will ever know. Then, at his wake, she hears a song describing her situation; who is this "Phantom" they've hired as the Funeral Singer, and how does he know her secret! Steampunk AU fic. Not part of J.O.S. continuum. Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Second fic, but not connected to the J.O.S. continuum. No, this is an AU thing I have to write…right now. Not sure how long it'll be, (if it'll go more than one chapter) or if it'll update regularly, but…anyway, read/review/fav/follow my AU DP fic: "The Funeral Singer," inspired by the music video of Panic! At the Disco's "The Ballad of Mona Lisa" I do not own Danny Phantom or "The Ballad of Mona Lisa." The lyrics of Phantom's song written in here are mine. That's all. Also: this chapter used to be shorter. I've added on a part.**

An imperceptible twitch of violet lips, which she quickly hides behind a black handkerchief; Samantha "Sam" Manson crumples into her mother's arms, feigned tears falling from her lavender eyes.

"There, there," the older woman soothes, stroking her sobbing daughter's back, "It'll be okay."

She smiles into her mother's corseted bodice, restraining a laugh. Her eyes swivel over to the still form on the bed. A blond-haired man in his thirties lays motionless on white sheets. A dove-gray top hat with a black ribbon rests on the bedside table, never to be worn by its purchaser more than once.

"It's so unfortunate," the doctor sighs, "To leave behind such a lovely widow."

Sam straightens, brushing away her tears, "Please excuse me. My husband would not want me to behave in such an…unseemly manner," she brushes dust from her long, purple dress with black leather gloves, "Please forgot you saw anything."

"Of course, My Lady," the corpulent man replies, scratching at his gray mustache.

"How did he…? If I may ask," Pamela asks, resting a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Some form of poison, I presume. Well…the young Baron Harwood had many enemies," he raises an eyebrow; "You haven't suffered anything unusual, have you, Lady Harwood?"

Sam shakes her head, "No…he fell after…" she covers her mouth again with her handkerchief, "after he finished his scotch."

"Does he drink every night?"

"Yes. Everyone in the manor knows of it," she dabs at her eyes.

"…I see," he huffs, "Well then, perhaps you should stay with your parents tonight. Keep an eye on her just as a precaution. I…I'll call the undertaker."

"Thank you," Sam whispers from behind her kerchief, hoping she looks absolutely devastated as her mother escorts her away from the room.

Six months ago, she had become Mrs. Aaron Harwood; his family owns the local railroad, making the young Baron a good match for the only daughter of the elite Manson estate. She hadn't been happy about her impending marriage, but she accepted it; such was the fate of wealthy women. It was purely political; to be honest, they'd met a few times and he wasn't _awful_.

It shows that you cannot judge a man you've only talked to for less than an hour.

She'd learned very quickly that Baron Harwood was not a good man; not the gentleman he pretended to be. He was often drunk; violently so. She would plead, hide, fight back; but she still saw the purple stains across her skin in the mirror. She knew she had to save herself from the monster she'd been sold to. No one would ever learn she'd been poisoning the monster little by little with arsenic. She'd made him dependent on it; a necessity for his survival. Then she'd stopped. Over the past few days, he'd suffered from withdrawals that ultimately killed him.

Good riddance.

-BREAK-

Four days later, she stops the final clock of the manor and turns the final mirror towards the wall. Her face is solemn; she wishes she didn't have to kill him. The guests all offer their condolences before viewing the body in the parlor to say their goodbyes. In the main hall, chatting and raucous laughter can be heard above music.

_Hidden behind a gentleman's smile,_

_A vile creature of cardinal sin,_

_Would never notice the tipping vial,_

_A wounded bride's desperate poison._

She halts in her tracks, suddenly feeling sick.

"Isn't that…?" a man questions his companion.

"The funeral singer?"

"Doesn't he go by some tasteless name?" he huffs.

"He's quite popular, you know. They say his songs always fit the deceased," his wife assures, "…Phantom, that's it!"

She turns to face the singer, his bright green eyes burning into hers. His white hair contrasts with his pitch-black suit and top hat.

_Oh, who could ever blame her?_

_Forced to wed a man so cruel?_

_A fair maiden who once pure,_

_Now made a blood-stained jewel._

She takes a step back, wondering briefly if any of the other guests have noticed; but none turn her way. Phantom, though, smiles wickedly as he sings, his eyes locked onto hers.

_He knows,_ fear pounds in her chest, _he _knows.

"Samantha, are you alright?" her mother asks, appearing behind her, "You look pale."

"Yes, I just…I believe I need some time to sit down. Please excuse me," she hurries up the stairs, secluding herself in her dark bedroom. Assured she's alone, she allows herself to succumb to the tremors. The music floats up from below.

_Even now the demon loudly calls,_

_Demanding her crimson blood be spilt,_

_Though her pain be written on the walls,_

_Amongst these broken bottles of guilt._

_Oh, who could ever blame her?_

_Sold as though a china doll?_

_These words I can deem as sure,_

_He earned his destructive fall._

-BREAK-

"So…you're not gonna turn her in?"

"With what proof, Tuck?"

"True…"

"I don't want to anyway; man was a real piece of work and got what he deserved!" Phantom leans against the stonework, removing his top hat and brushing a hand through his silver hair. Here in the darkness, one can see the pale, ghostly glow that surrounds him.

"You're only saying that because she was hot," the darker man snorts.

"She was," he grins, but sobers suddenly, "But that's not why. You can't see it, Tuck. The miasma," he shudders, "it coated that place like a blanket."

"Almost like the tobacco smoke?"

"Yeah," he snorts, "Another reason it was time for me to leave. I've got lungs to protect!"

"You don't even have to _breathe_ like this," Tucker retorts, motioning to his entire body, "…you totally scared the crap out of her."

"Yeah, I did," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You touch it?"

"What?!"

"The miasma," he frowns.

"Not any more than I had too," he shakes his head; "…did you know he'd go after her with the bottle? Oh, and he'd…" he covers his mouth, looking ill, "…He deserves to wander the Infinite Realms for eternity."

"He'll come back for her."

"Definitely."

"Then what?"

"Let's think about that when the time comes, hm?"

"…what do you think will happen to her in the meantime?"

"No idea, Tuck. None at all," he pulls his hat on once again, keeping the brim low as they stride into the night, along deserted streets.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well, here's Ch. 2! I like the concepts for this story, but I'm not sure on my writing. :P If you want something written better, I would suggest Journey of Secrets, if you aren't already reading it. This is just…my vent story. I had an idea itching at my head, and had to get it out. Remember to read/review/fav/follow! As my Journey of Secrets followers can attest, regular reviews keep me motivated to update!**

Ch. 2

She wakes up on the floor, curled against the wall. The music has stopped, and pale morning light filters through the windows. Birds twitter outside as she sits up with a groan, cracking her back.

"Samantha?" her mother calls from the hallway.

"I'm getting changed, Mother!" she returns, hurriedly rushing for a different dress, laid on her bed. She fumbles with the buckles as she recalls the burning green eyes of the funeral singer. Despite his white hair, he'd looked to be close to her age; possibly not even a year older than her twenty.

_Phantom…_her knuckles turn white, knotting into the fabric. He'd been challenging her; _daring_ her to contradict him. But he hadn't turned her in; thinking on the lyrics, he didn't intend to.

"How did you know?" she mutters, slipping into her new dress and looking towards her mirror, which remains covered by her wedding veil. She whisks the fabric away with a hand and gazes at herself in the polished surface.

Her hair is dark, curled and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She glances over her figure, ensuring that no bruises can be seen – of course they can't – and pulls the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall to her shoulders. She brushes her violet-tipped fingernails through it before giving up and reaching for her brush.

_It's over,_ she assures herself, _it's over, Sam._

Two hours later, she sits at a café in the northern end of town, waiting for a friend of the family, Valerie Grey, to join her. She's been friends with Valerie for years, but since getting married, she'd been kept at the manor like a pet parrot.

"Sam!" Valerie shouts, bustling over in a pale yellow gown with darker, orange accents. Sam stands, and the two women hug briefly before taking their places at the table once again.

"It's so good to see you, Val," she smiles, "Really, _really_ good."

"I know! I know it's not polite to speak ill of the dead, but I can't understand why that idiot wouldn't let you come visit!"

"Well, he was just…"

"Sam, cut the crap. You hated his guts!" she snorts, and leans forward, "Did _you_ kill him?"

"What would make you ask that?!" she hisses back, glancing around nervously.

"Because unlike everyone else, I actually _know_ you; I'm not going to tell. He probably deserved it."

"He did," she snips before she can catch herself. Her hand snaps over her mouth, earning a satisfied smirk from Valerie.

"What did he do?"

"…shall we head back to your mansion for some privacy?" she asks quietly, knowing there's no stopping her. She'll press until she gets what she wants; that's the Grey way.

She looks worried as she nods, and summons her carriage from across the street.

"Mind giving me an idea?" she asks once they seat themselves on the plush seats inside and the carriage jerks to life.

"He was drunk…a violent one," Sam takes a deep breath, "I just…I couldn't take it anymore. I had to kill him before he killed me."

"How'd you do it?"

"Arsenic; not the usual way," she clarifies, leaning into her hands, "Made him dependent on it and then stopped; he went through withdrawals for two days before giving up the ghost."

"Ouch," she wrinkles her nose, "earned it, though. I mean, if _you_ can't even _talk_ about what he did…" tears bud at her eyes, "Oh, _Sam_, I'm sorry you suffered so much!"

"It's okay, now, it's over," she assures.

"So," Valerie smirks, "Convince everyone at the wake you were the grieving widow?"

"Yeah…" she replies, "Except…"

"Except who?!"

"What do you know about the funeral singer who calls himself 'Phantom'?"

"Phantom…? He's pretty popular; showed up a few years ago before vanishing until recently. He sang for my uncle's wake. He was cute," she recalls with a grin, "deep voice that almost seems to echo. It was weird; he sang about things I didn't even know happened. Auntie told me they were all true though, and she hadn't told him."

"So…he just…knows?"

"Rumors say that he can see the spirits of the dead," she whispers, "others say _he's_ one of them."

"Seriously, Val, _ghosts?"_

"I'm just telling you the rumors," she raises her hands, "What did he sing?"

"About a cruel man who earned his wife's hatred and wanted revenge for his death," she blurts, "But…the chorus asked who could blame her for doing what she did. I…I don't think he plans to turn me in, Val."

"Then drop it," she dismisses, "He's not going to cause problems. The ghost of your murdered husband, on the other hand…"

"Ghosts don't exist, Val!"

"You should hope so, girl. Keep hoping."

-BREAK-

_"__Thy soul shall find itself alone_

_'__Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;_

_Not one, of all the crowd, to pry,_

_Into thine hour of secrecy._

_Be silent in that solitude,_

_Which is not loneliness–for then_

_The spirits of the dead, who stood_

_In life before thee, are again_

_In death around thee, and their will_

_Shall overshadow thee; be still."_

"Danny?" Tucker glances around the clearing, his eyes scanning the trees for any sign of his friend.

_"__The night, though clear, shall frown,  
And the stars shall not look down  
From their high thrones in the Heaven  
With light like hope to mortals given,  
But their red orbs, without beam,  
To thy weariness shall seem  
As a burning and a fever  
Which would cling to thee for ever."_

"Listen, Danny, are you just going to sit around reciting Poe all day, or are we going to get some work done?"

_"Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,  
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;  
From thy spirit shall they pass  
No more, like dew-drop from the grass."_

The dark form slips from the branches with a grin. His blue eyes spark mischievously behind strands of onyx hair.

_"The breeze, the breath of God, is still,  
And the mist upon the hill  
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,  
Is a symbol and a token.  
How it hangs upon the trees,  
A mystery of mysteries!"_

"The only mystery is how we're both still single," Tucker smirks, "I mean, I am the epitome of attractiveness! How can I _not_ have a girl!"

"Maybe because you advertise yourself too much," Danny retorts, "And we're broke. That doesn't help."

"Hey, we made good money last night!"

"Yeah, but it's not exactly a _steady_ income, Tuck," he claps his friend's shoulder, "People _die_ before we get decent work."

"Maybe if you started doing weddings…"

"_No_," he frowns, "Phantom sings at _funerals_, and _only_ funerals."

"Fine," he sighs, "So…another day at the labs?"

"Yeah, I have to make sure my folks don't add to the graveyard," he replies, rubbing at his eyes, "Jazz is off at medical school, leaving me with the babysitting."

"Have you seen the factory owner's daughter?" he grins, "Valerie Grey; she's absolutely gorgeous!"

"Good luck, Friar Tuck," he snorts.

"Friar?"

"Because that's how likely you are to get her attention."

"That hurts, man!"

"It's the truth. It'd be like me dating the lovely widow," he smirks, "The former Miss Manson."

"A man can dream, can't he?"

"That's all we can do, isn't it?" he rubs at his neck, "Anyway, I need to get to the factory before my parents blow something up. Can you bring those tools I requested to me there?"

"Yeah, no problem!"

-BREAK-

"So anyway, Daddy's not here right now – he's off organizing the factories in New York," Valerie alights from the carriage, "So it's just–Danny!" she smiles, waving at a dark-haired young man jogging towards the factory. He turns, taking Sam's breath away with a blue-eyed glace. He stops, barely breathing hard, and tips his hat to the two women.

"Morning, Miss Grey," he greets, "And Miss…?"

"Missus Harwood," she replies.

"Ah, yes, excuse me," he fidgets, "my condolences for your husband."

"Thank you."

"Sam, this is Daniel Fenton," Val smiles.

"Danny, please," he chuckles. There's something familiar in his eyes…

"Danny's the son of our head researchers, Jack and Maddie," she turns to the young man, "Daddy mentioned you were back…from where again?"

"I was studying engineering in Germany," he replies, "Jazz is off to medical school, so it's my turn to make sure–" an explosion can be heard in the distance, and the smile falls from his face with a sigh, "that doesn't happen," he turns to Valerie anxiously, "If I may be excused, Miss Grey?"

"Yeah," she waves him off and he begins to sprint. She turns to Sam conspiratorially, "He's not bad-looking, definitely a nice guy. He made my baby cousin a clockwork ballerina music-box for her birthday and shipped it to us on an airship after reading a letter from me, panicking about not having a gift. I mean, his _parents_ are really odd, but Danny and Jazz – Jasmine, his older sister – are normal."

"Excuse me, Miss Grey!" another young man jogs up, his dark dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail. He carries a leather bag over his shoulder. Blue-grey eyes look over brass rims.

"You're Danny's friend, right?"

"Yes, Miss," he smiles, "Tucker Foley. Danny asked me to bring him some tools and supplies; is he at the–" another blast sounds in the distance, "–yes, he is. I was hoping I'd beat him here for once," he sighs, "Anyway, please excuse me," he doffs his cap and jogs away.

"He's not hard on the eyes either," Valerie comments, "Don't know him well, though. But he's friends with Danny, so he can't be _awful_."

"You're not picky, are you Val?" Sam smiles.

"Hey, I can admire finely crafted men, can't I?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yeah, the storyline's pretty fast-paced, but as I said: I'm considering turning this into a really long one-shot someday. We'll see. Anyway: Chapter #3! I know I don't update this NEARLY as often as I update Adrift, but, hey, it exists? I want to do a sketch of Phantom from this fic. Maybe one with Phantom AND Danny, so that you can see what his clothes look like in either form. Danny has a very different personality as Phantom in this fic; he kind-of gets…'In-Character', if you will. As Phantom, he's far more confident and acts like a wealthier man. He's a smooth-talker and very good at dealing with others, but not necessarily…nice. You know he's in charge when he enters a room. Danny himself is very kind, and very responsible. He's more easily flustered and polite to his 'superiors'.**

** Anyway, a big thanks to all who reviewed/faved/followed! I hope you'll continue to enjoy, and remember to check out my other DP stories, "Journey of Secrets" and its sequel "Adrift"! (I promise they're far better written, as I have more of them planned.) Anyway: please continue to read/review/fav/follow!**

Ch. 3

It's dark in the manor, thunder rumbling in the distance. Only a single candle illuminates the room. Sam finds herself jumping at shadows as she walks by. Every once in a while, she feels as though she can see red eyes glow in the darkness, but second glances just reveal her ghostly reflection on the glass.

She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she ascends the staircase, the candle wavering in her hand.

_You…_

She swallows, picking up her pace. She's imagining things…

_I'll be coming…_

"He got to me more than I thought," she mutters, "I will _not_ let him torment me when he's _dead_!"

_…for you…_

She slams the door to her room, leaning against the heavy oak paneling. She lifts her head, making eye contact with her reflection in the mirror. But she isn't the only one there.

Baron Harwood glares from beside her reflection, his eyes vibrant crimson, and his skin a sickly shade of blue-green. His blond hair is disheveled, falling into his eyes, and his elegant clothing is torn.

The candle drops from her grasp, flickering out as it falls to the carpet. The room falls into darkness, save for the glowing red eyes in the mirror.

_You cannot escape me…_

-BREAK-

Her boots stick in the mud of the street, the rain pelting her black umbrella. It's past midnight, far later than a woman like her to be out and about, but she can't stay in the manor.

Not with _him_ there.

She strolls aimlessly, her mind whirling. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the burning red orbs in the darkness. Her trembling hands tighten around her umbrella, and her pace quickens.

_…Even now the demon loudly calls,_

_Demanding her crimson blood be spilt…_

_He knew…_she realizes, _he was _warning me_._ She marches on, paying no attention to her surroundings. She just needs to walk. Walk away from that place, from _him_. Tears sting at her eyes, _even after I kill him, I can't escape!_

She stumbles into someone, "I…s-sorry," she apologizes quietly, not lifting her eyes to see who she bumped into. She steps around to continue on.

"Mrs. Harwood?" they question, and she turns her head, the umbrella falling to the street.

Phantom stands in the rain, his cane – topped by a silver skull with glittering green eyes – tucked under his arm and his top hat to his chest. He seems to glow in the darkness, but she decides it's the light from the house he's just exited glowing on the small halo of rain pelting his body.

"You're…Phantom, right?" she questions.

"That's the name I go by," he nods. There's something familiar about him…"Are you alright? A lady of your status shouldn't be out this time of night…"

"I…I'm fine," she brushes a clump of wet hair from her face.

He smirks, unconvinced, "Are you really?"

"Yes!" she frowns, pulling her umbrella from the ground and shaking it out.

"…don't tell me he's already…" she can hear him whisper, more to himself than to her.

She turns to face him, stomping closer and entangling her fist into the lapel of his coat, "How did you know?" she hisses, "How did you know that I…?!"

"The dead are a surprisingly lively bunch," he replies flatly, suddenly out of her grip, though she has no memory of releasing him. Those glowing green eyes stare down at her, "he's a bit louder than others though. Not surprising, given his temper."

"Why…" she swallows, "why didn't you…"

"Turn you in?"

She nods.

"Weren't you listening?" he smirks, "He deserved it. Even if he didn't…" he places his hat on his head, "what proof do I have?"

"…I…I'm seeing things," she whispers. She can't explain why she's telling him this; a complete stranger, "…and hearing things…"

He frowns, his expression becoming pensive, "…perhaps we should get somewhere…drier? This weather can't possibly be good for you. You can tell me then."

"I…I'm not…" she presses her trembling lips together.

"He won't bother you if I'm there. He won't dare," he whispers.

"Why not?" she questions.

Those green eyes glow more vibrantly, and she _knows_ that it's not the reflection from the lighted windows.

"It's simple, really," he smiles, "I'm a lot scarier than he is."

-BREAK-

They approach her dark manor. He's soaked to the bone, and she's not far behind, but he seems unconcerned as they stand before her doorway. She shivers, closing her umbrella – she shouldn't have dropped it in the first place.

"Allow me to help," he places his hand on her arm, and she watches in shock as her body disappears momentarily, the mud and rain falling to the ground. When she fades back into being, she's perfectly dry – and so is he.

"…thank you?"

"You're welcome," he smirks, opening the door for her.

She steps inside, shivering again as she imagines red eyes glowering in the darkness. Phantom, sensing her apprehension, moves into the darkness of the house before her, a faint glow illuminating him. He switches the lights on, and she finally directs him to the parlor.

"Where might the servants be?" he inquires.

"I sent them home for the night," she replies.

"You shouldn't be up here alone," he frowns, "There have been robberies in wealthy neighborhoods nearby."

"I like being alone," she retorts.

"That's not true. You enjoy the company of Ms. Grey, do you not?"

"…and how would you know that?" she narrows her eyes.

He laughs, "You'd be amazed how much I overhear. Regardless, you were telling me you've been seeing and hearing things?"

"Yes," she nods shakily, and she clasps her hands in front of her.

"What did you see?" he asks seriously.

"My h-husband…" she swallows. The clouds have just cleared, and the moon shines through the window, illuminating the mysterious singer sitting on her couch. Despite the grave circumstances, she finds herself admiring him – but there's still a familiarity that bothers her.

"Blue-green skin, red eyes, messy blond hair?" he clarifies.

"Th-that's…exactly…"

"Hmmm…." He leans back, his green eyes swirling, "he's growing stronger more quickly than I anticipated. It must be because of the sheer amount of miasma in this place."

"M-miasma?"

"Yes," he replies, "only ghosts and the occasional medium can see it. It's greenish fog that collects in places full of negative energy. This house is full of it," his nose wrinkles, "A lot of ghosts feed on negative energy, but I, personally, don't like touching the stuff if I can avoid it."

"Negative energy…huh?" she stares down at her feet.

"You are not the only woman he tormented in this place, Mrs. Harwood – no, Miss Manson," he states quietly, "At least three maids have died here. That man was _not_ your husband. No man who treats his lawful wife as he did cannot be called such. It's an insult to those out there who love their wives."

"…were you married, Phantom?" she asks.

"That's a rude question to ask the dead," he smirks, "for future reference. The answer is no. I just have parents who love each other dearly."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I get offended less easily than others. Don't trouble yourself," he chuckles.

"So..this…miasma," she begins, "It…makes him stronger?"

"Yes," he nods, "usually, places this packed with miasma 'air out' once the cause of misery is gone, but there haven't been people around to stir it up. If miasma is caused by negative energy, then it can be dispelled by…" he waits for her to answer.

"Positive energy?"

"Correct. It doesn't need to be anything spectacular, but with a shortage of servants – and likely your memories or guilt – it isn't disappearing as I thought it would," he frowns, "a dog. Dogs are good. Most of them are sensitive to spectral visitors and they're nearly a constant source of joy."

"So you're suggesting I get a dog?" she asks dryly.

"Among other things," he smirks.

"Like…?"

"Bring Miss Grey here," he suggests, "other people you like, and who like each other. Hold a garden party. It'll slow down his progression, at least, if you can cut down the miasma here."

"I'm not sure if such a thing is possible," she whispers quietly, hugging herself, "This place…the things that happened here…"

"I know," he whispers. Her eyes whip to meet his, and she sees despair swirling in their depths, "Trust me, I know _everything_ that happened in this place. I can see it – feel it – when I come into contact with the miasma. It's very difficult to avoid here," he reaches across the coffee table and takes her hand in his own. For a moment, she can see a blanket of green mist covering the floor. He lets go, and the vision vanishes.

"I…every morning I wake up and think he's standing there again, glowering down at me," she whispers, "and then I have to look at the bruises in the mirror and…"

"I know…" he whispers again.

"…I'm never going to be truly free of him, am I? I killed him and _he's still ruining my life_."

"I can weaken him again, and then by the time he gets enough energy to appear again, you'll have long since moved on," he smiles gently, removing a white glove and wiping her cheeks with a cold, long-fingered hand.

"He won't show up as long as you're here?"

"If he's smart," he replies, "I assume the other residents of the Infinite Realms have told him how much he wants to avoid angering me."

"So how many ghosts are there?"

"Too many to number."

"And all of them fear you?"

"Most of them."

She stares into his eyes, entrapped in their acid-green depths, "Can…can you stay for the rest of the night?" she whispers, "I can prepare a guest room for you…"

"Would it make you feel better?"

"Yes."

He thinks it over for a moment, "I have to leave early in the morning; probably before you wake, but I will make sure you're safe before I leave…"

"Thank you," she whispers, another tear sliding down her cheek and caressing his thumb, "thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

Ch. 4

"Valerie, I think I've fallen in love with a ghost," she states abruptly.

"A…ghost?" she quirks an eyebrow, lowering herself slowly into her chair, "I thought…"

"First I saw my husband's ghost, and then I ran into Phantom on the street–"

"Sweetie, he's just _called_ Phantom. I was just kidding about the whole 'actually a ghost' thing–"

"No, he's an honest ghost," she insists, "And supposedly a crazy strong one."

"…are you okay, Sam?"

"I had dreams, Val. Wonderful, _awful_ dreams. Is that even remotely okay if I've only met the guy twice?" she downs a large portion of her tea, "No, it shouldn't be."

"Sam…"

"He's beautiful, you know. Snowy-white hair, acid-green eyes…"

"Sam, honey…"

"He isn't standing behind me or anything, is he?"

"No, but a _very_ flustered looking Danny Fenton is," Val takes a slow sip of her own tea as Sam turns, locking eyes with the coal-haired young man.

"Mrs. Harwood, a…mutual friend…suggested I give you something," he whispers, "It's in a crate at your manor."

"What is it?" she whispers back.

"A canine of…ectoplasmic origin," he fidgets, "he said it would eat the miasma and exude positive emotions…two birds with one stone, if you will. He also asked that I remind you about a garden party?"

"You know…?"

"My parents study ghosts, Mrs. Harwood," he smiles abashedly, "in their spare time. Regardless, they've yet to see a real ghost. Jazz and I, on the other hand…" he shrugs, "really, we know more than either of them…but what they don't know can't hurt them, now can it?"

"So...you know how to contact him?"

"Yes," he nods, "So if you need to speak with him, just let me know. He…he's fairly reclusive."

"What if I want _him_ at my garden party?" she presses.

"I'll let him know, and then tell you if he's available or not," he replies, "He's a busy man."

"I'll tell you when I know the details then," she dismisses, "Thank you, Mr. Fenton."

"Danny," he corrects, "You have a nice day, Mrs. Harwood."

"Manson," she corrects softly.

"Well then," for a moment, she thinks she sees green swirl through his eyes, "Have a nice day, Miss Manson."

He vanishes into the crowd with the blink of an eye, as though he hadn't been there at all.

"…I didn't know you two were so…chummy. When did _this_ happen?" Valerie frowns.

"It seems we have a mutual acquaintance. He was just passing on a message," Sam explains, still curious about his sudden disappearance. There had been something…familiar in his voice just before he vanished. She lowers herself slowly back into her chair.

"So…what's this about a garden party?"

"Ah," Sam smiles, "Well, I was thinking that I need to…brighten up the manor a bit. Give myself some…some good memories…" her smile fades, and she stares into the swirling depths of her tea.

"So you want to throw a garden party?"

"A nice evening with you and a few other people I don't hate," Sam nods, "I can spend time working on the garden out back – it'll get me out of the house – and when I'm done, I can show it to you."

"Makes sense. I think something to focus on outside of your house will be healthy."

"Yeah, I think it will too."

-BREAK-

"Woah, dude, I think we need to slow down and repeat that part where _you stayed the night at her house_!"

"I was in the guest room!" Danny hisses back, his eyes darting around to scan for eavesdroppers, "She was just scared he was going to come back. It wasn't anything…romantic. She just wanted a guard-dog."

"Keep telling yourself that," Tucker retorts, "I think she might like you, man."

"She doesn't like _me_," Danny growls, green flickering in his eyes, "She likes _Phantom_, if anything. She's just been through a rough six months, her husband's ghost is back…he just makes her feel safe. The moment everything's okay, he – I – will be a simple acquaintance."

"Danny, you're her knight in shining armor!"

"Just _drop it_, Tuck!"

They stride across the town square, meeting in front of the bulletin board. Danny scans each piece of parchment, before finding one with a skull scrawled in the bottom-left corner. He snatches it away, quickly reading the note.

"The Lefevre patriarch passed away," he explains to Tucker, "Pity. He was an excellent craftsman. I hope his sons have the skill to make the tools I need…"

"So they've requested you?"

"Yeah. Two nights from now," he glances around surreptitiously, and pulls a stamp from his pocket. He stamps the 'DP' symbol on the little paper and pins it back, telling the family he's accepted their request.

"So…you really don't think you have a chance? I think you should risk it," Tucker begins again, "Because I would like to think I have a chance with Valerie Grey."

"And at your funeral I'll sing about a guy who didn't realize he was way out of his league and was killed by an overprotective father. You _do not_ want to mess with Damien Grey."

"It'll make for a good song, at least," he shrugs, "a tragic story of love."

"…those _are_ pretty popular," Danny growls, "Anyway, I need to plan the song a bit, so…" they duck into an alleyway, and, checking that no one else is present, he slows his breathing, concentrating. A few seconds later, a duplicate of himself slides from his body. It transforms into Phantom and vanishes, flying for the Lefevre home. Danny releases a long breath, "Now…off to the factory. I've left my parents alone for _way_ too long this morning."

"Yeah, I need to get back to the store. See you tonight for some work?"

"Yeah. See you then," he nods, jogging out into the crowd.


End file.
